


User Satisfaction

by Anonymous



Series: Clowntown Kinkmeme Fills [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie Tozier Has a Big Dick, Sex Toys, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28614834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Richie lets it slip that his dick was used as a mold for sex toys. Eddie, unable to help himself, orders one online.It escalates from there.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Clowntown Kinkmeme Fills [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164656
Comments: 54
Kudos: 670
Collections: Clowntown Kink Meme 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**  
>    
> Richie let’s it slip that his dick was used to create a mold for a specific company’s sex toys back when he was strapped for cash and one of his past dates mentioned wanting to have a copy of his dick. 
> 
> Eddie, unable to help himself, orders one online. 
> 
> Freshly divorced Eddie, bonus if he’s never used a toy that big and has to work his way up to it. 
> 
> The toy can be a regular dildo or it could be a vibrator. He could have gotten multiple versions and I personally like the idea of him sticking one to the wall of his shower. Double bonus if Reddie aren’t together yet and Eddie has a crisis when Richie comes to visit because he knows how big his dick is now and what it’d feel like inside of him.

Eddie sits back in his chair, glancing behind him as if a camera crew is going to come bursting in at any minute. His tiny apartment is, of course, as empty as ever. He scrubs the back of his neck, then glances back at his laptop. Takes in the words on the screen with a faintly incredulous air: _High-Quality Silicone; Flared Base With Suction Cup For Hands-Free Pleasure._ Under the size options, a check next to _True To Model_. His credit card information is already entered, the shipping address beneath it, with a note from the manufacturer promising discreet packaging.

Jesus Christ, it had _better_ be discreet. Mrs. Krezminski across the hall already thinks he’s a serial killer; if she sees a package from a sex shop in front of his door he’ll never hear the end of it.

Not that he’s going to actually do it. This is… _beyond_ crossing a line. This goes from pathetic to downright creepy.

Eddie goes to X out the screen, then, in a fit of what might actually be temporary insanity, clicks the _Confirm Purchase_ button instead.

* * *

It all starts, predictably, because the surviving members of the Loser’s Club meet up at Ben’s weird glass-box house in Nevada and end up spending their last night there getting utterly, irresponsibly drunk. Eddie feels like he should be the voice of moderation, but on the other hand, he just got divorced and his liver can probably handle one night of bad decisions. Besides, Ben’s collection of top-shelf liquor is a far cry from the dubious punch in a sticky plastic bowl that he vaguely remembers from the one time his college roommate actually managed to drag him to a party.

Bill is showing off some fancy bartending trick, flipping the cocktail shaker from hand to hand as he mixes, Bev and Richie cheering him on. Finally, with a neat twist of his wrist, he lets it land on the countertop, laughing. “It l-looks harder than it is. Good for tips, though. I’m surprised I still remember how to do it.”

“You were a bartender?” Eddie asks, drifting closer. His glass is sweating against his palm, the ice in his gin & tonic melting to translucent slivers. The world feels pleasantly blurry, more so when he bumps against Richie and Richie bumps him back, grinning down at him from where he’s leaned up against the bar, all long legs and wild hair and garish button-down. He’s very warm. Eddie doesn’t move away.

“Yeah, in college,” Bill says, dropping a twist of lime into the cosmo and sliding it over to Mike. “For a while after, too. Until I sold _The Black Rapids_ and I could start writing full-time.”

Richie nods seriously. “That sewer orgy really made bank for you, huh?”

“Fuck you, Trashmouth,” Bill says, but it’s mild. “Like you have any room to talk.”

“Fair,” Richie says easily.

“Okay, okay,” Bev says. “So, Bill was a bartender. Richie still doesn’t have a grown-up job—” Richie flips her off, and she returns the gesture, grinning. “Eddie made totally responsible career choices from college on, I’m sure—”

“Hey,” Eddie grumbles, although it’s true. He slipped easily from grad school to internship to entry-level corporate job without a hint of friction to make things interesting. It’s utterly depressing. He takes another drink. Meanwhile, Bev is still talking.

“Mike, weren’t you telling me that you were a zamboni driver for a while?”

“Yeah, for that rink over in Bangor,” Mike says. “Pay was lousy, but it was nice. Peaceful. Lots of time to think.”

“I was a carhop for this sleazy retro dive, you know, with the roller skates—”

“Hot,” Richie interjects.

“And _Ben_ —” she breaks off as Ben drops his head into his hands, blushing cherry-red.

“Oh, do tell,” Richie says. “Ben, did you do porn? Please tell us you did porn.”

“No, it wasn’t _porn_ ,” Ben protests.

“Underwear model,” Bev says in a loud whisper. “I found some of the catalogues.”

“It was like _once_ ,” Ben says. “I was in college, I was broke—come on, guys, stop laughing, I didn’t think anybody would ever see it.”

Richie leans over the bar to pat his shoulder. “That’s okay, I got you beat.”

“Wait, did _you_ do porn?” Mike asks, laughing but suspicious, and Eddie feels his whole body go tight and flushed.

“No, Jesus, who the fuck would want to look at this while they’re trying to get off?” Richie laughs, gesturing at himself. His broad shoulders, his long legs and big hands, and Eddie takes a hasty sip of his drink before he can say something he won’t be able to take back. He nearly spits it out when Richie adds, “I was dating somebody who worked for this, like, indie sex toy company and they were looking for models for their new line...”

“Oh _no_ ,” Bev crows as Eddie gulps, his throat burning from the gin, or possibly panic.

“Oh yeah,” Richie says, grinning, not the least bit discomfited as far as Eddie can tell. Of fucking course he’s not. He’s been bragging about his dick since middle school, this must have been the culmination of a lifelong dream for him. “Life-size model, baby.”

“N-no way,” Bill laughs.

“Yeah way, check for yourself if you don’t believe me. It’s still for sale in like six different color options.”

“No, seriously, Richie, I don’t believe you,” Bev says, but she’s already pulling out her phone. “What’s the name of the company?”

“No, don’t—” Eddie protests. He can’t bring himself to look at Richie or he’s going to do something insane. “Come on. Please.”

“I’m with Eddie,” Mike says. “Rich, no offense, but I’ve heard enough about your dick to last me a lifetime.”

“Same,” Bill says, but he’s laughing. Ben just drops his head into his arms on the bar. He’s red-faced but looks relieved to be out of the spotlight, so there’s no help to be had there.

“Decadent Dreams,” Richie says to Bev. “No—the second link, the other one’s some romance publisher—there you go.”

“Ooh,” Bev says, pulling up the site. Over her shoulder, Eddie can see a swoopy rainbow-colored banner on a black background. “This is actually classy, I was expecting some virus-ridden pit.”

“Hey, I’m a classy guy. The only virus-ridden pit I’m interested in is Eddie’s mom.”

“Fuck you, dude,” Eddie says automatically, throwing back the contents of his glass. “I need another drink.”

“You want me to make you something?” Bill asks from the other side of the bar, still watching Bev and Richie with an expression of morbid hilarity.

“No, fuck, just give me the bottle.”

Ben slides it over to him. Bev, meanwhile, is scrolling through a selection of sex toy categories. Anal beads. Butt plugs. Vibrators. Dildos. Eddie is going to go out of his fucking mind.

“There,” Richie says, pointing. “That’s the one.”

“Wait, is that—” Bev breaks off, cackling. “Oh, no fucking way.”

“I didn’t name it, I swear!”

“No fucking _way_ ,” Bev says again, and holds out her phone so they can all see it: a photo of large, curving, veiny dildo on a bed of black velvet, available in a variety of colors both natural and not. Under it, in splashy white letters, reads, _THE BIG RICHARD_.

The room breaks into groans and laughter as Richie pumps his fists triumphantly. “Told you!”

Eddie tears his eyes away and takes a huge swig of 90-proof gin straight from the bottle.

* * *

The box is delivered on a Saturday afternoon, discreetly packaged as promised—so discreetly, in fact, that Eddie takes it inside and drops it on the tiny kitchen table and is puttering around putting his groceries away before he remembers what it must be.

He doesn’t drop a carton of milk all over his kitchen floor, but it’s a close call. He slams the fridge shut, then goes to make sure the chain is on his door, then returns to the kitchen to stare at the innocuous-looking cardboard shipping box. He should just return it. He read the website; there’s a generous return policy on unopened orders, so that’s what he should do. He definitely shouldn’t be getting a knife from the block on the counter to slit the packing tape holding it together.

He’s just going to look, that’s all. He keeps telling himself that as he pulls the box open, unfolds the packing slip and another sheet with what looks like cleaning instructions and a coupon for a discount on his next order. Under that is a black velvet drawstring bag. Classy, like Bev said. Eddie takes a deep breath, and opens it.

He ordered it in blue, because flesh-colored dildos always seem to have a vaguely cadaverous look that Eddie finds off-putting. So it doesn’t actually look like a real dick, but it’s shaped like one: the slight curve, the flared head, the vein running down the underside. The silicone is smooth and has a faint give to it.

It’s—big. Like, almost implausibly big, thick enough at the base that Eddie can’t quite get his whole hand around it.

“You gotta be fucking kidding,” he murmurs, and pulls the packing slip toward him. Sure enough, under _Size_ it says _True To Model._

A wave of heat breaks over him, leaving his skin buzzing. He takes a shaky breath, and realizes that he’s getting hard, right there in his kitchen, just from looking at it. Just from imagining—

Okay. So he’s clearly doing this.

* * *

The problem is, Eddie has never been fucked by something that big. Has never been fucked at all, technically, the unfortunate side effect of having his sexual awakening at age forty, to his—straight—best friend. He’s used his fingers plenty, enough to know he likes the feeling of something inside him. He’s got a couple of other toys that he bought once he finally managed to get over the mortification. But nothing like this. He’s going to have to—Jesus. He’s going to have to work up to it.

He starts with fingers, hand twisted back slightly awkwardly while he breathes into the sheets, already so turned on that he feels like he’s unravelling. It would be easier to do this on his back, but he likes it like this—likes the solidity of the pillow to rut against and the mattress against his cheek and the way it almost lets him pretend that someone else is touching him.

Two fingers first, and then three, twisting until he hits his prostate. He groans at the jolt of pleasure down his spine, his cock sliding against the pillowcase that’s already going slick with precome.

He adds more lube and works another finger in, imagining how much bigger Richie’s hands would be—his wide fingers and thick knuckles, all of him so fucking _big_.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Eddie gasps. The sheets are going damp beneath his cheek from how hard he’s breathing, his cock leaking steadily as he fucks back onto his fingers. He pulls them out, fumbling for the lube, spilling it over his fingers and the sheets in his eagerness.

Maybe he should use one of his other toys first, but he doesn’t want to wait, and he’s so wound up that he feels like he’s about to go off at any moment anyway. He pulls the dildo toward him, slicking it up with trembling fingers, then pushes it back between his legs, sliding it between his asscheeks until the big, blunt head is nudging against his hole.

It feels huge like this. He’s never going to be able to take all of it, but he wants—fuck, he just wants—

He breathes out in a messy gasp against the sheets, willing his body to relax as he starts to push it in. It hurts, a little—it’s bigger than his fingers or any of the other toys he's used, but a moment later the ache fades into a strange and shivery pleasure at being stretched like this. Eddie takes another deep breath, his heart pounding so hard he can almost hear it, braces his knees and rocks his hips back slightly. The thick head of the dildo slips inside him, and as it does he has the sudden clear thought: _This is what Richie’s cock would feel like, this is what it would feel like if he was was fucking you, if he was on top of you, sliding his dick into you and trying so hard to go slow_ —and it’s all over. He fucks down against the pillow, moaning wildly, and comes so hard that his vision goes white around the edges.

It takes him a moment to come back to himself. He pulls the dildo out, wincing a little at the sudden empty feeling, and rolls over onto his back, breathing like he’s been sprinting, electric aftershocks still zinging through his body. Soon enough, he’s going to have to get up and clean it, and himself, and also change the sheets that are now covered with lube and come.

For the moment, though, he flops back onto the other pillow, puts his clean hand over his face, and says, in a voice that’s so hoarse he sounds like he’s been screaming, “ _Fuck._ ”

So this is going to be a thing, apparently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... yeah. This is actually going to be three chapters, not two. Oops?

The next time is a week later.

He’s just gotten off the phone with Richie, which always leaves him wired. Wound up, full of the jittery energy he gets from bickering with Richie, who gives it back to him like nobody else has ever managed. Normally, he’d go for a run just to work some of it off, but it’s well after ten at night by the time they hang up and Eddie can’t be bothered to dig through his drawer to see if he has any clean running shorts left.

He tosses the phone on the nightstand and flops back on the mattress, starfishing his arms and legs out. He’s half-hard, mostly from pent-up adrenaline and the memory of Richie’s warm, laughing voice in his ear. It doesn’t feel particularly urgent, but he reaches down to cup a hand over himself through his sweatpants anyway. He’s mostly just stroking idly, debating whether it’s worth the bother to dig out the lube and do this for real, when he has the sudden heat-flash memory of the way Richie looked that last night in Nevada, slouched against the wall with his long legs spread like he was trying to draw attention to his crotch.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie mumbles. His cock is filling quickly, and he strokes himself again, this time with more purpose, shoving his sweats down around his hips for better access. With his free hand, he fumbles blindly for the drawer in the nightstand where the lube is. As his fingers close around the bottle, his knuckles bump against a velvet bag, and he freezes, then grips the base of his cock convulsively, lazy arousal sharpening to something hot and frantic. He tosses the lube on the bed, then pulls the bag out and opens it.

The dildo is just as big as he remembers, the head of it a solid weight in his palm. Eddie remembers what it felt like inside him, even barely inside him, and shivers, a drop of precome beading at the head of his dick before sliding down to wet his fingers.

He can’t do this in the bed; he remembers what a mess he made of it last time, and it’s too damn late to change the sheets.

The shower, then. Cleanup should be easier, and the tub has a lip that’s just broad enough to sit on. Eddie shucks his clothes off, gathers everything up and heads into the bathroom without letting himself think too much about what he’s doing. He closes the door and locks it automatically, then turns on the shower, waiting for it to warm up before he leans back into the tub. After a bit of fiddling, he gets the suction cup to attach securely and steps into the hot spray, his cock hard and heavy between his legs.

He takes his time about it this time, letting the hot water loosen him up as he fucks himself open with his fingers, and then with the larger of his other two toys, which is glass and has round bumps that catch on his rim with every thrust. It feels good, but it’s not the reason that his whole body goes eager and hot every time he glances over at the massive blue dildo waiting for him.

He dimly suspects that this is going to become a problem, but he also can’t bring himself to care at all right now.

His cock is curving away from his body, red and leaking, by the time he feels like he’s ready. He pours lube into his palm and slicks the dildo up generously, working his hands up and down like he’s jerking off a real dick before he braces himself against the shower wall and guides the blunt, slippery head of it into his ass. It’s easier this time, as slick and loose as he is, but it’s still a _lot._ He moans as the head slips inside, the flared underside catching at his rim and sending bright sparks of pleasure up his spine. His thighs tremble with the effort of holding him steady.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His voice comes out thick and slurred, like he’s been drugged. He _feels_ like he’s been drugged. “What the fuck, who needs a dick this big, _fuck—_ ”

It’s slow going, rocking down inch by inch as his cock kisses wetly against his abdomen, mouth open and gasping on the steamy air. And then suddenly he’s there: his thighs hit the cool porcelain ledge of the tub as he seats the dildo fully inside him with a broken shout. It echoes off the shower walls, and Eddie rolls his head back against the tile, his chest heaving, breath coming out in helpless little moans as he tries to adjust to the sensation of being filled like this. He feels like he’s been split open, the stretch so huge it’s painful, but after a moment it starts to fade into that shivery pleasure from before. He reaches back with one hand to touch the thick, slippery base of the dildo and place where he’s stretched around it, and shudders all over, rocking down like he can push it in even farther.

He can’t really get much leverage like this, but he manages to brace his hands on the lip of the tub to lift up and then grind back down. Steam rises in the room, hot water falling across his left leg and side.

It’s all awkward; it’s impossible to get any kind of rhythm going like this. He’s pretty much just squirming on it, impaled so deeply that he swears he can feel it in his _throat_.

It’s—god. It’s so fucking good.

He rubs a hand down over his stomach, his skin prickling, and presses hard just above his pubic bone like he’ll be able to feel the shape of it inside him. His knuckles bump the head of his cock, and he moans, wrapping his fingers around it and stroking with a fast hard rhythm like he wishes he had the leverage to get on the dildo.

 _If Richie was really here he could fuck me as hard as I wanted_ , he thinks, and and gasps, rocking down again and again, imagining it: Richie’s sturdy thighs under him and his big hand wrapped around Eddie’s dick to get him off—

His orgasm hits him like a freight train, striping ropes of white across his chest and stomach. He rises up instinctively, then shoves himself back down on the dildo with a sob as another blurt of come spills over his knuckles.

Afterward, he leans back against the shower wall, panting, trying to gather himself enough to stand up. The dildo is a thick, solid pressure inside him. It’s kind of uncomfortable now that he’s gotten off, and every time he shifts it sends a confused jumble of pleasure and pain sparking through his body.

Eventually, he manages to get his feet under him, to push himself up with a hiss. His ass feels tender, his legs almost too shaky to hold him up. As he steps back under the shower spray, bracing himself with one trembling hand against the tile wall, he thinks that if Richie were here for real he’d have to fucking _carry_ Eddie out of here.

He tilts his face directly into the spray and tries very hard not to think about that. It seems worse, somehow—more invasive than getting himself off to the thought of Richie fucking him. Hot water sluices over his body, which feels pleasantly shaky and hollow, like a bell that’s just been rung. His head is a mess, but other than that, he feels fucking amazing.

So maybe he just needs to stop thinking about it so damn much. Just stop thinking about it and go with what feels good. Richie has definitely said things along those lines to him, although this probably wasn’t what he had in mind.

It’s fine. He’s never going to find out anyway, so it’s fine.

* * *

After some experimentation, he figures out that if he attaches the base of the dildo to the shower wall, he can brace himself against the door to thrust back on it. It’s almost what he imagines being fucked for real would feel like. Almost like if Richie was here for real, hard and wanting and letting Eddie fuck himself on his big cock, which is a thought that never fails to make him come so hard he sees stars.

He should probably feel weird about that, and he does, but it’s not like thinking about Richie when he jerks off is a _new_ thing. Just because he has a more accurate idea now of what it would feel like—well. Nobody has to know. It’s the most satisfying his sex life has ever been, which is a pretty sad observation, but there are definitely sadder ones to be made.

It’s not a problem. Even talking to Richie on the phone, which happens at least a couple of times a week, usually for hours longer than Eddie intends, conversations rambling effortlessly through any random topic that comes into either of their heads—even that’s not an issue. Eddie has known for months that he wants Richie. It doesn’t change the fact that Richie is his best friend. He’s not going to _let_ it change that, not when he finally has him back after decades of stepping lightly around the lonely, baffling hole in his heart where the people he loves most were meant to be.

Of course, then Richie drops a fucking bomb on him during one of their regular phone calls. He has shows on Saturdays, and likes to call Eddie afterwards, and Eddie always answers even though the time difference usually means that he doesn’t end up in bed until well after midnight.

“—Yeah, anyway,” Richie says, at the tail end of an unflattering story about his manager that has Eddie gasping laughter. It’s probably not an especially charitable or accurate account of what actually happened at the Hollywood Casino last week, but Eddie has been enamored of Richie’s mean streak for decades now and doesn’t see that changing anytime soon. “I’m actually gonna be in your neck of the woods soon.”

“I live in fucking New York.”

“It’s just a turn of phrase, man,” Richie laughs. Eddie can hear furniture creaking on the other end of the line, like he’s settling more comfortably into his couch or at the kitchen table in his Chicago penthouse that Eddie has never actually seen. “So, hey, I haven’t had a chance to see your bachelor pad yet.”

“It’s literally just an apartment,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling, leaning back in his kitchen chair. He’s not lying—this was never meant to be a permanent place, so it’s tiny and as impersonal as a dorm room, but it’s all _his_. He doesn’t have to explain that, not to Richie, who used to sneak in his window when his mom locked him in his room, who knows more than maybe anyone what it means for Eddie to have a place that’s just his own _._

“Yeah, but it’s _your_ apartment,” Richie says, with unmistakable fondness. “Anyway, more to the point, I hear you have a pull-out couch?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie says. His heart speeds up. “Why?”

“Would it be available next Tuesday, by any chance? I’ll be in town for like a week and a half.”

“What, you can’t afford a hotel room?”

Richie pauses. “Do you not want me to stay with you?”

He sounds a little hurt and like he’s trying to hide it, and Eddie winces. The thing is, he does want Richie to stay with him, very much. He’s just slightly afraid that if Richie is in his apartment for any amount of time he will— _somehow_ —intuit that Eddie has spent the past few weeks getting himself off on a life-sized replica of Richie’s fucking giant dick, and then Eddie will have to quit his job, change his name, and flee the country.

But the last thing he wants is to hurt Richie’s feelings. He sighs. “Okay, fine, text me your flight and I’ll pick you up at the airport. But don’t expect a mint on your pillow.”

“Oh, well, fucking forget about it then.”

“See you next week,” Eddie says fondly. “Asshole.”

Richie’s laugh is warm in his ear and makes him flush all over. After he hangs up, Eddie drops his head into the cradle of his arms, then bangs it lightly on the table. It’s official. He’s fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie gets found out, and also laid.

He spends the morning before Richie’s flight gets in half-nauseous with nerves and anticipation, but that fades once he finally sees him in person. Eddie spots him first; Richie is anything but inconspicuous, despite his uncharacteristically subdued outfit of dark jeans and hoodie that practically screams _celebrity in an airport._

Sure enough, he’s accosted by a pair of starry-eyed teenagers before Eddie can call out to him. Eddie leans against a pillar, watching as he laughs, scribbles autographs, and crowds together with them to take a selfie. He’s good at this whole celebrity bit, at least when he’s not being terrorized by a demonic clown. Eddie waits until they’re gone before he approaches.

“Hey, dude, are you famous or something? Can I get an autograph?”

Richie jumps, then spins around, laughing. He looks tired, this close, and his hoodie is unzipped just enough to show a shirt with a garish pattern of purple monkeys on it. Eddie finds it absurdly endearing. “I didn’t see you there, Eds. Were you standing behind one of the trash cans? They’re just about as tall as you.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling as he lets Richie haul him into a hug. Richie gives the best hugs, and Eddie’s pretty sure he doesn’t just think that because he’s kind of touch-starved and also kind of in love with him; he’s just—big and warm and smells good, and he really commits to them, folding Eddie into his arms and squeezing until Eddie swears he can hear his ribs creak. He gives it back just as good, feels Richie huff laughter into his hair, and releases him as the baggage carousel starts clanking beside them.

Richie’s luggage turns out to consist of a comically oversized electric-blue duffel and a garment bag, both of which he hefts easily over his shoulder along with his carry-on before Eddie can offer to take something.

“You know they make suitcases with wheels on them, right?”

“No, do tell,” Richie says, grinning down at him. His hair is flattened on one side like he was sleeping against the plane window, and Eddie’s fingers itch to straighten it out. He’d suspect Richie of leaving it shaggy just to get that exact reaction if it weren’t for the fact that Richie seems genuinely, idiotically oblivious to the possibility of anyone finding him irresistible.

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” he says, as they push through the terminal doors into the crisp chill of a New York autumn, heading for short-term parking. “One of these days, you’re going to throw your back out slinging forty pounds of luggage over your shoulder like some twenty-year-old frat boy, and I’m going to be such a dick about it when you’re strung out on Carisoprodol.”

Eddie thumbs his keyfob as they approach his car. He doesn’t have to look at Richie to know that his face is lighting up gleefully at the sight—was expecting that reaction, honestly.

“Oh, holy shit, Eds. Tell me you don’t actually drive a fucking Escalade.”

“It’s safe, and comfortable, and—you know, I don’t need to take this shit from someone who showed up in Maine in a fucking Mustang convertible, Jesus Christ.”

“I guess it’s true what they say about overcompensating,” Richie says thoughtfully, and Eddie shoves at his shoulder and pops the back hatch for him to toss his bags in.

Maybe this’ll be okay after all.

* * *

He panics again briefly when they get back to his apartment, then forces himself to shake it off. It’s not like he just leaves sex toys lying around in the first place; they’re in his nightstand drawer, which locks, and Richie’s not about to go digging through his stuff in any case. He’s too busy wandering around Eddie’s tiny apartment like it’s the fucking Louvre, commenting on his wall art in a nasally French accent. It’s completely obnoxious. Eddie has missed him desperately.

“—and zis one I see,” he says, tucking his hands together behind his back and leaning in toward an inoffensive landscape print that Eddie got mostly to break up the expanse of white plaster on his living room wall. “Ah. Yes of course. A very fine example of ze Target oeuvre...”

He pronounces ‘Target’ as ‘Tar-jay’. Eddie sighs. “Are you gonna keep being a dick about my interior decorating, or do you want to go get something to eat before your meeting?”

“I’d be very nice about your interior decorating if I saw any,” Richie says, dropping the Voice.

“Very fucking funny. You want my pull-out, or should I kick your ass out so you can try to find a hotel room in Manhattan on an hour’s notice?”

“Eds,” Richie says seriously. “I would be _honored_ to take your pull-out.”

He doesn’t even need to make a dick joke out loud; it’s all there in his tone. Eddie rolls his eyes, grateful that Richie probably won’t read too much into the fact that he’s blushing.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says. “Just for that, you’re springing for dinner.”

“I always knew you just wanted me for my money,” Richie sighs dramatically, but he’s grinning as he lets Eddie shove him out the door.

* * *

After all his freaking out, it’s actually fine. It’s easy. Richie spends most of his time in studio meetings for a thing he won’t tell Eddie about but seems cautiously excited about. He’s an unexpectedly good houseguest: folds up the couch every morning and sets his blankets and pillows neatly to the side like Eddie might possibly have other guests who would need the space. He hangs up his wet towels instead of leaving them on the floor and helps with the dishes and behaves, generally, like a reasonably considerate adult instead of the overgrown adolescent that Eddie sometimes still expects him to be. They haven’t really shared space like this since they were kids, and Eddie is a little unnerved by how effortlessly it seems to work.

He’s trying not to think about that, actually. The kind of sappy domestic fantasies that line of thinking always conjures somehow seem more damning than his possession of a particular sex toy.

But the point is, it’s easy, and after a couple of days Eddie gets comfortable with it. Too comfortable.

They’re not even drinking. Instead, he’s in the bedroom scrubbing the sticky residue from corner-store gummy worms off his hand with the package of wet-wipes in his nightstand while _Alien_ plays on his living room TV at a volume that’s definitely going to piss off his neighbors. _Gummy worms_ , for fuck’s sake. Eddie is in love with a forty-year-old man who eats gummy worms while watching the kind of sci-fi horror that by rights _neither_ of them should enjoy anymore. There is something deeply wrong with him.

“Eddie, dude, come on!” Richie calls from the living room as he’s scrubbing at the sugary residue between his fingers. “You’re gonna miss the chest-bursting scene!”

“Pause it, pause it!”

“I’m not gonna pause it, that ruins the suspense,” Richie retorts, and Eddie drops the wipe in the trash can and scrambles back into the living room without bothering to turn the light off, dropping onto the couch just in time to see the crew of the Nostromo settling down for dinner. Richie grins and passes him the gummy worms, and they settle in to watch the cozy familial scene dissolve into a bloody gruesome disaster.

“Oh, _gross_ ,” Richie breathes, visibly delighted, as the alien erupts out of Kane’s chest in a spray of gore. Eddie is pretty sure it’s the exact same reaction he had the first time they watched it on VHS in Ben’s basement twenty-five years ago. Eddie watches him, his profile lit up by the TV, and feels utterly stupid with affection.

They watch until Ripley blasts the Xenomorph out the airlock, and then Richie goes to raid the kitchen for more snacks. Eddie puts his feet up on the coffee table and scrolls idly through his phone as he waits for him to get back.

Which is taking a while, actually.

“Rich?” he calls, without taking his eyes off of his screen. He’s been trying to beat level 73 of Two Dots for ages, but he’s almost out of free rounds and as a matter of principle he refuses to pay for a phone game. “You get lost in there? I’m gonna start the second movie without you in a minute.”

“Yeah,” Richie calls back. And then, “Uh, I mean, no, I’m good. Sorry. I’ll be right there.”

His voice sounds weird. And it’s also… not coming from the kitchen. Eddie sets his phone down on the couch cushion, blinking, and looks up to see that his bedroom door is open, the light still on.

A bolt of sheer panic slices through him. He throws himself off the couch and dashes down the hallway, but of course it’s already too late. Richie is standing next to the lamp, wide-eyed. The nightstand drawer where Eddie keeps wet-wipes—and, not so incidentally, _lube and sex toys_ —is wide open. To top it all off, the black velvet bag prominently stamped with the _Decadent Dreams_ logo is open enough that the large blue dildo inside it is completely visible.

Eddie’s life is a fucking farce.

“Um,” Richie says, and clears his throat. He glances down at the drawer, then away. He might actually be blushing, which Eddie has almost never seen him do. “Sorry. I just came in to turn the light off. I didn’t mean to, uh. See that.”

There’s no way he doesn’t recognize it. If this was just about Eddie owning sex toys, Richie would have immediately bounced back out to the living room and started roasting the hell out of him. He wouldn’t be fucking _blushing._

Of course he fucking recognizes it. It’s literally his dick. Eddie clears his throat, then says, desperately, “Would you believe me if I told you I bought that as a joke?”

“That’s a lot of money to spend on a joke. I know their shit isn’t cheap,” Richie says cautiously. “But yeah. If you tell me that, I’ll believe you.”

So that’s a no. Eddie nods, and squeezes his eyes shut, and mutters, “It wasn’t a joke.”

“Oh.” A pause. Then Richie asks, “Did you use it?”

Eddie nods. He literally can’t answer. He can’t _not_ answer. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on here; Richie should be storming out. Or, at best, teasing him mercilessly from now until the end of time. Instead, his voice breaks slightly as he asks, “Did you like it?”

Eddie’s face feels like the surface of the sun. He nods again.

Richie lets his breath out noisily. “ _Jesus_ , Eddie.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie manages. “I know it was—” creepy and inappropriate and all of the other things that he thought when he first pulled up the website. All of the things that should have stopped him and didn’t. He has to salvage this, somehow. “I know you’re not interested. I know you’re straight. I shouldn’t have—”

“I’m not,” Richie says unevenly. “Um. Straight. I’m not straight. I _am_ interested.”

“What?” Eddie asks, and finally opens his eyes. Richie is staring at him from across the room. The lamp carves his face into a maze of shadows; behind his glasses, his eyes are wide. He’s definitely still blushing. And he just—he just said that he—

“Oh shit, okay, breathe,” Richie says, and it’s only then that Eddie realizes that he isn’t. Richie hesitates visibly, then crosses the room to pull Eddie into a hug. He can’t bring himself to hug back, but he tucks his burning face into the hollow of Richie’s throat and takes a deep breath, and then another. His head is spinning, but it eases after a moment.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Jesus. This is mortifying.”

“Sorry,” Richie says, sounding actually fairly sincere about it. He clears his throat. “So like, does this mean that you’re _not_ interested, or...?”

Eddie groans without lifting his head. “I literally bought a dildo shaped like your dick, of course I’m fucking interested.”

There’s another long moment of silence, and then Richie’s shoulders start to shake.

“Shut up,” Eddie tells him, smacking his arm, but he doesn’t pull back; his nose is pressed to the stubbled corner of Richie’s jaw as Richie dissolves into helpless laughter against him. “Shut the fuck up, it’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny, man,” Richie chuckles into his hair.

“Fuck you, it is not,” Eddie says, but he’s starting to smile. There’s a bubble of laughter rising in his throat, half hilarity and half relief. He tucks his face into Richie’s shoulder and muffles a snort in his shirt, swallows it down, then gives in and laughs until his eyes are wet.

“You know,” Richie says a little while later, rubbing a big, warm hand between his shoulder blades as Eddie sags against him. “I like you, and you like me—or at least, you like my dick, apparently—”

“Rich, I swear to god—”

“—so I really feel like we should be making out right now, or something.”

Eddie pulls back to peer at him. He’s still flushed, although that might be from the laughter by now. There’s a teasing smile caught in the corners of his mouth and his eyes are bright.

Richie is bluffing, probably. He always bluffs, and Eddie always calls him on it.

“Fine by me,” he says, and catches Richie by the back of his neck to drag him down into a hard kiss.

Richie makes a startled sound into his mouth, but he gets with the program fairly quickly once Eddie slips his tongue against the seam of his lips: brings his hands up to cup Eddie’s cheeks and licks into his mouth like he’s starving for it.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes when they finally break apart. His mouth is wet; when Eddie reaches up to rub a thumb over his bottom lip, he inhales sharply. “I thought you were joking.”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Eddie asks, then narrows his eyes, letting his hand drop. “Why, were _you_ joking?”

“No!”

“Well, what’s the fucking problem, then?” Eddie asks. He feels lit-up, almost feral with want. “Come back here.”

Richie laughs breathlessly. “I should have known you’d be a tyrant about this.”

“Fine. _Please_ come back here.”

“That works, I guess,” Richie says, and he’s grinning as he leans down to kiss Eddie again. It’s slower this time, and somehow dirtier for it. His tongue is slick and hot and he still tastes faintly of sugar and artificial flavoring. Eddie licks the taste of it from his mouth, grabs at him to haul him closer: his palm pressing into the dip of Richie’s spine, his other hand gripping at his shoulder, the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair to keep him tilted down against Eddie.

“What the fuck,” Eddie mumbles against his mouth, straining to reach when Richie starts to straighten. “Why are you so fucking tall?”

Richie huffs a warm breath of laughter against his cheek. “Uh, sorry?”

“You _should_ be sorry,” Eddie tells him, dragging him back. “I’m going to get a crick in my neck and it’ll be all your fault.”

“Huh. How about—” Richie kisses him again, then presses him back until his shoulders hit the wall. And then his hands are on the backs of Eddie’s thighs, and he _lifts_ suddenly, heaving Eddie up against the wall and pinning him there with his weight. Eddie gasps, clinging to him. Braced against the wall like this, with Richie’s hips between his legs, there’s no space at all between them.

“Better?” Richie asks, looking smug.

Instead of answering, Eddie hooks his legs together behind Richie’s back and yanks him back in. Richie’s fingers dig into the backs of his thighs, and his body is broad and hot, and when Eddie bites at his lower lip he makes a low sound in the back of his throat and rolls his hips forward, and—

Oh. He’s getting hard; Eddie can feel the shape of his cock thickening against his inner thigh, hot and unmistakable even through two layers of jeans. He lets his head fall back against the wall with a groan.

“You’re not—oh, fuck, Richie, you’re not fucking me up against the wall, there’s a bed right there.”

“ _What?”_ Richie lifts his head. He looks like he just got whacked upside the head by a two-by-four, entirely too stunned for a man who is definitely rubbing his dick against Eddie’s ass right now.

“What,” he says, and he can hear strain in his voice. “Did you want to quit this and go watch _Aliens_ instead?”

“No,” Richie says, staring at him. “No, just—really? You want that?”

“I want it, yeah.” Eddie grinds down on Richie’s dick as best as he can with the limited leverage he has, and Richie shudders against him, his hands flexing on Eddie’s thighs. “Do you not want to? We don't have to if you don't.”

Richie laughs a little wildly, then leans in again and kisses him hard before moving back to let him stand. “Jesus, Eds, of course I fucking want to.”

 _Of course_ , like it’s obvious. Like Eddie should have known.

“Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?” Eddie asks. He pulls his shirt off, then starts yanking at Richie’s. “Get this off, I want to see you.”

“God, you’re so bossy,” Richie laughs, but he obeys, tugging his shirt off and letting it drop on the floor behind him.

“I said please, didn’t I?” His mouth is dry. It’s not like he’s never seen Richie without a shirt before, but it’s so much different like this.

“Yeah, like once.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, and hooks his fingers in Richie’s belt loops, pulling them flush together. “ _Please_ take your pants off and fuck me. Better?”

“Oh, holy shit,” Richie says breathlessly, pushing his hips forward. The hard ridge of his cock nudges against Eddie's stomach, and he groans when Eddie reaches between them to cup it through his jeans. “Yep. Okay. You got it.”

Maybe he should feel nervous about this, but right now he's so turned on that nerves are the last thing on his mind. He gets his jeans open and shoves them down; Richie does the same. It's a quick, breathless fumble for both of them to pull the rest of their clothes off, and then Eddie lands naked on the mattress as Richie, still in his boxers, leans over to sift through the nightstand drawer.

“Shit, there’s gotta be lube, right,” he mutters, “you got a whole fucking sex shop in here...”

“Look, don’t make fun of me.”

“Oh, babe, I am _so_ not making fun of you.” Richie comes back up with the bottle of lube and settles on the mattress beside him. He sets a hand on Eddie’s hip, his fingers spreading out big and warm, and leans over to kiss him. “Have you done this before?”

“Not, uh.” Eddie thinks of his dildos—of one in particular—and flushes. “Not with another person. Have you?”

“Yeah.” Richie kisses him again, then starts sliding down the mattress before he can even consider processing that. His hands land on Eddie’s thighs, spreading them apart; there’s the sound of the cap opening, and then a lube-slick finger pressing into him at the same moment that Richie’s mouth slides over the head of his cock.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Eddie moans, rocking down on it. Richie’s fingers are bigger than his, thicker, and he definitely knows what he’s doing. He crooks his finger unerringly to rub against Eddie’s prostate, then works another in while Eddie is still gasping with it, pressing slick and deep. Eddie already feels like he’s unraveling. By the time Richie has three fingers inside him, he’s moaning on every breath, both from the feeling of it and the knowledge that Richie is opening him up to fuck him. That it’s happening for real.

“I’m gonna,” he manages, “Rich, I’m gonna come, if you keep that up, I’m gonna—”

Richie moans around his dick, and that almost does it right there, but a moment later he pulls back, sliding his fingers out and pressing a kiss to Eddie’s hip when he hisses. Eddie puts an arm over his eyes, the other hand gripping the sheets tight so he won’t be tempted to touch himself, as Richie pulls a wipe out of the drawer to clean his fingers.

He leans down to kiss Eddie when he’s done, then pulls away. “Be right back.”

“What?”

“Condom,” Richie says. “Unless you have some?”

“I, uh.” He didn’t even think about that. What the hell. “No?”

“There’s some in my bag,” Richie says, and slides off the bed. He’s still in his boxers, but they’ve gone slick and wet all around the head of his cock, clinging in a way that might actually be more obscene than if he was naked. Eddie just gets a glimpse, anyway, before he’s heading back out to the living room.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, then calls, “They better not be expired!”

“Give me some credit, man,” Richie calls back. There’s a shuffling sound, and then a soft _aha!_ , and then he’s padding back into the bedroom with a foil-wrapped square in his hand. He glances at Eddie, then bites his lip, looking faintly embarrassed, then shoves his boxers off.

“Oh, holy fuck,” Eddie breathes. He slides off the pillow and sits up.

“Don’t,” Richie says, and he definitely looks embarrassed now, which is ridiculous because he has the most beautiful dick Eddie has ever seen.

Which, okay. He might be biased. And also all of his comparisons come from porn. But still.

It’s as big as Eddie thought, thick and flushed and curving up until the head just bumps Richie’s stomach. There’s moisture beading at the tip, and Eddie leans down unthinking to run his tongue over it.

“Oh,” Richie says faintly, and he shudders when Eddie slides his mouth farther down, presses his tongue to the vein running up the underside. The thick head bumps against the back of his throat. He gags slightly, pulls back, then slides back down.

“Eddie, Eddie,” Richie breathes, and then his fingers are threading through Eddie’s hair, trembling and gentle. “This is going to be over real quick if you keep doing that, I’m just saying.”

There’s an appeal to that, too, but Eddie pulls back anyway, and with a final wet kiss to the head of Richie’s cock, he plucks the condom out of his hand and tears it open carefully. Richie holds very still as Eddie rolls it down onto him; when Eddie glances up at him, his eyes are shut tight, his teeth digging into his lower lip.

This is all suddenly feeling very real. Eddie swallows hard, then presses a kiss to the softness of Richie’s stomach just below his navel, then settles back onto the bed, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his hot face in a pillow. His heart is pounding wildly. The mattress dips as Richie settles onto it. There's the soft noises of him slicking himself up. Eddie shudders, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Holy fuck, Eds,” Richie says. His clean hand settles lightly at the base of Eddie's spine. “Like this, you want it like this?”

Eddie nods against the pillow. He feels desperately exposed, more so when Richie’s hands land on his hips, pulling him up so that he’s on his knees, legs spread. And then Richie is settling behind him, bracing himself up on one hand as the other guides his cock to nudge between Eddie's asscheeks, then push slowly inside him.

Eddie moans when the thick head slips past his rim, and then can’t stop moaning, rocking back helplessly as Richie’s cock sinks into him inch by inch. He can hear Richie swearing softly above him, the creak of the mattress, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. It’s a slow, hot slide that seems to draw out forever before Richie’s hips finally hit his ass.

A ragged sob escapes him. He rolls his head against the pillow, trembling all over. 

“Oh, fuck,” Richie breathes above him. His hands stroke down over Eddie’s sides, leaving prickling trails of heat in their wake. Eddie moans into the pillow, his hands fisted in the sheets, and feels Richie’s cock pulse inside him, thick and hot. The stretch is just on the edge of unbearable and so, so good. “Oh, fuck, Eddie, look at you, you’re so—is it good? Does it feel good?”

“Yeah,” Eddie manages thickly. He rocks his hips back slightly as the ache fades into that hot, crackling pleasure. Better still when Richie gasps sharply, fingers digging into his hip. “It feels so fucking good, please—”

He pushes back again, and this time Richie seems to get the idea. He moves against Eddie, rocking into him with shallow thrusts that get deeper as Eddie moves with him. Eddie lifts his head off the pillow, gripping the sheets, then braces his hands against the headboard, his knees spread, as Richie wraps an arm around his waist and buries his face in his shoulder and starts fucking him in earnest. It’s a lot: the weight of Richie’s body against him and his big cock moving inside him and the rhythmic slam of the headboard against the wall. Eddie grips it tight with both hands and drops his head; his cock is heavy between his legs, flushed red and leaking a slick pool of precome onto the sheets beneath him.

He feels fucking delirious, feverish, so turned on he can barely think. His breath is coming out in frantic, punched-out moans with every thrust. He can't imagine what he must look like right now, what he must sound like, overwhelmed and out of his mind with pleasure. He can't _care_. It all feels too good.

Richie is babbling against his skin, filthy and sweet and borderline incoherent— _Eddie, Eddie, fuck, you feel so good, look at you fucking taking it, god you’re beautiful, I want you to come on my cock just like this, fuck—_ but Eddie can barely hear it over the sound of his own breathing, his heart pounding in his ears. He feels pinned like this, everything in him condensed to a hot bright point, and then Richie shifts slightly, changing the angle on his next hard thrust, and just like that it all breaks: Eddie cries out desperately, gripping the headboard tight, and comes all over it and the sheets beneath him without being touched at all.

“Oh, fuck,” Richie breathes. He goes still as Eddie gets a hand around his cock, come spilling over his knuckles as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Eddie, fuck, did you just—”

“Keep—keep going, keep—” Eddie gasps. It’s all too much in the best way: the weight of Richie’s hands on him and his chest pressed against Eddie’s back and the thick aching stretch of his cock as he thrusts back in and then stills, his breathing going harsh and his arm tightening around Eddie’s chest as he comes in slow deep pulses inside him.

They stay like that for several moments, breathing together, before Richie shifts back, pulling out. Eddie sucks in a breath across his teeth, and Richie rubs a hand down his spine, soothing. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie mumbles. He eases himself down onto the mattress, avoiding the worst of the mess, as Richie rolls away to dispose of the condom. His heart is still beating fast, his body shivery and warm. He cracks his eyes open to watch Richie drop the condom in the trashcan and then straighten. Sweat shines in the hollows of his collarbones and between his pecs; his glasses are fogged, his hair is wildly messy and his smile careful and wary when he glances down at Eddie.

“You good?” he asks.

“I’m fucking great,” Eddie says honestly. “Come back here.”

Richie laughs, sounding startled; his shoulders lose a little tension. He circles the bed to sit down on the ruined bedclothes, within arm’s reach but not touching. “I think we’re going to need to change the sheets.”

Eddie snorts. At some point he’s going to care about that, but right now he feels like all of his bones have been replaced with warm liquid, like he’s melting into the mattress, sticky sheets and all. “Yeah. That’s why I usually jerk off in the shower.”

The mattress creaks as Richie flops onto it, wheezing laughter. “Okay, now I’m done. Deceased, cause of death: Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.”

Eddie pokes him in the side. “Fucking Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“That too.” Richie grins at him, sweet and fond and utterly smug. “So, hey, how’s it compare? Are you keeping the dildo?”

“Of course I’m fucking keeping it, are you kidding me?” Eddie retorts. “Maybe next time I’ll sit on it while I suck your dick.”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Richie groans, flinging an arm over his eyes. His softening cock gives an interested twitch against his thigh. “I’m forty fuckin’ years old, man, give me a minute to recover.” Then he lifts his arm to peer at Eddie. “Next time?”

“I mean. I’d like there to be a next time.”

“Huh,” Richie says thoughtfully. “Me too.”

“Well, good.”

“So, uh. Is all this…” Richie waves a hand between them. “Is it, like, just because you wanted my dick?”

By rights, it should sound cocky. Especially from Richie, _especially_ after he just fucked Eddie senseless. Instead, it’s vulnerable in a way that makes Eddie swallow back the snippy retort that rises automatically to his lips.

“No,” he says, and then stops, considering. “I mean, _yeah_ , obviously, that’s part of it, but. It’s mostly that I’m—that I love you. I’m in love with you.” He hears Richie’s sharp inhale, and winces. “Is that too much?”

“Jesus, no, it’s not too much, I just keep thinking I’m on Punk’d and a hidden camera crew is about to pop out from under your bed.”

Eddie shoves at his shoulder, relieved. “Weren’t you one of the actors on that?”

“Yeah. Not one of my finer moments.” Richie is smiling a little, though, as he leans over to kiss Eddie’s mouth. “Hey. Me too.”

“Huh?” Eddie asks, derailed.

“I love you too. Full-on crazy-eyed fuckin’ Lloyd Dobler with a boombox kind of love.”

“If you pulled a Lloyd Dobler on me, I would dump my dirty underwear on your head.”

“I always knew you were a romantic, Eds.”

“Look who’s talking,” Eddie says, but it comes out soft and fond. He takes a breath, then says. “I really don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I meant that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I know it’s like… you’re in Chicago, and I’m here, and there’s a lot of logistical shit that would go into making it work, but…”

“I, um, actually,” Richie says. “That thing I’m in talks for—”

“The big top-secret thing?”

“Yeah. It’s a Netflix series. Filming would be in New York. If we can get it off the ground, I’d be here for at least the next eight months, and after that…” He shrugs. He’s not quite looking at Eddie. “I mean, who knows. And I’ve been thinking about coming out, like, publicly for a while now, so.”

“Oh,” Eddie says softly. He takes a careful breath, then says, “You need a place to stay while you’re in town?”

“Yeah, you know anybody with a pull-out couch and a drawer full of sex toys?”

“Very fucking funny,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling. “You’re not sleeping on the pull-out couch for eight months, anyway, genius.”

Richie grins, his eyes closed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He pauses. “So, we are _not_ telling anyone the truth about how we got together.”

There’s a silence, and then Richie starts laughing. Eddie glares at him where he’s sprawled across the bed, all long limbs and pale skin. One arm is flung over his head, accentuating his bicep in a very distracting manner. Under his glasses, his eyelashes are a short dark fringe against the upper angles of his cheekbones. Eddie wants to kiss him, and also to put him in a headlock, and neither of those desires is particularly new.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he asks, without opening his eyes. “I’m gonna get _years_ of material out of this.”

Eddie pokes him in the side, trying without much success to tamp down on his own laughter. “Don’t get so cocky. I don’t need your dick that bad. I already have a replica.”

“Hmm, but will it do this?” Richie asks, and rolls over to pin him easily against the mattress. Eddie shoves back instinctively and can't move him at all. It sends a languid heat twisting through him that he’s definitely too tired to do anything about. For now.

“I don't know why you think that's a point in your favor,” he grumbles, but he leans up to kiss Richie's smiling mouth anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this spiraled COMPLETELY out of control; much appreciation to the OP for such an inspiring prompt.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://glorious-spoon.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/glorious_spoon), and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon) as glorious_spoon. :D


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